


None Shall Sleep

by ruric



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Community: comment_fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-16
Updated: 2009-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-13 17:08:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruric/pseuds/ruric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some immortals are just not morning people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	None Shall Sleep

Sheets and comforter pulled right the way up, tucked over the top of his head and he’d like to stay in this warm cocoon he’s managed to create for at least another few hours. 

He knows he’s in the trance like state between deep sleep and wakefulness – at the point where like a swimmer skimming just under the surface of the waves - you have to decide to come up for air or dive deeper into the blue.

Methos really would like to plunge back down into dreams of sandy deserts, shady oases, richly tiled courtyards and smiling women dressed in diaphanous robes. He wants to touch the memories of his wives and friends now long gone, because this is the only place he really remembers them, here in his dreams.

But there’s something wrong, a noise on the periphery of his awareness which just won’t let him slip back down into the arms of sleep.

“Damn it all.”

Dragged reluctantly awake he sits up, wraps the comforter around him, a barrier against air cool enough to make his skin goose. He stomps out of the bedroom cursing fluently in Akkadian under his breath because the harsh gutturals of the language so perfectly match his mood.

As he approaches the kitchen the air warms slightly and the noise that dragged him from sleep increases in volume.

The swell of music rises and falls, and instead of following his first instinct and storming into the kitchen he stops, one hip leaning against the door frame surveying the scene in front of him and he can feel the start of a smile pulling at his lips.

Pans simmering on the stove, a testament to the early morning activity, Duncan is standing with his back to the door, arms spread wide, head back, giving his lungs a workout.

_Nessun dorma! Nessun dorma!_  
Tu pure, o, Principessa,  
nella tua fredda stanza,  
guardi le stelle  
che tremano d'amore  
e di speranza. 

Methos loathes, detests and abhors opera even more so one about a cold hearted princess luring silly love struck princes to their death. It might be irrational but there you go he’s never claimed to be perfect – although come to think of it he might possibly have laid a claim on perfection...once or maybe twice. 

The one thing he’s learned in all his years is the art of perfect timing and so he waits for a pause in the music. 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

He’s rewarded by the speed with which Duncan spins around, the blush staining his cheeks and the feigned wide eyed look of innocence.

“I thought you were asleep.”

Methos wraps the comforter more tightly around himself and shuffles over to the CD player hitting eject. 

“I _was_ , but only the dead could sleep through that.”

His fingers are twitching towards the CD, seized by an irrational idea to break the damn thing, when Duncan’s fingers close around his wrist.

“Put it down.”

“But you woke me up and now I’m cold and...”

He knows he sounds a little petulant but he’s never really being a morning person, especially not a morning person when they’re up at the cabin and it’s cold and....

“Yes. And now you’re awake I’m sure we can think of a way to warm you up.”

He knows Duncan's laughing at him but that doesn’t really matter because there’s a promise in Duncan’s eyes and the heat of the body leaning into him.


End file.
